


A Little Bit Of Naughty, A Whole Lot Of Nice

by leiascully



Series: A Thousand And One Nights [8]
Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Variety is the spice of any sex life, so Alex offers Matt one wish.  His passing fantasy of shagging River Song turns out well for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit Of Naughty, A Whole Lot Of Nice

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: N/A  
> A/N: Uh, I'm not sure where this came from, but here you go. For the "silk/velvet/feathers/fur" square on my Kink Bingo card, and now I'm done with amnesty! Title is from the song from the movie _Burlesque_.  
>  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that bears no resemblance to and claims no knowledge of the people about whom it is written.

"Oh, _Matt_ ," Alex gasps, and it takes all the restraint he has not to come right then at the sound of his name in her mouth. His hips jerk, but he steadies himself. They're trying something new: he's straddling her thigh and her leg is over his shoulder, and so far it's amazing. He turns his head to kiss her ankle and reaches down with his other hand to stroke her clit. She gazes up at him, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed, her hands caressing her breasts and sliding down her sides. She's so fucking gorgeous he can barely breathe at the sight of her. 

He thrusts into her and she moans again. The sweet sound of it gets into his blood, rushing to every part of his body. He can feel his balls tightening and he breathes carefully. He's so close to the edge himself, but he's not going over without her. God, he wants to make her come. He can never get enough of the expression on her face: the way she bites her lip, the way her eyelashes flutter, the ecstasy in her smile. 

She's close. He can tell by the way her fingers clutch at her breasts, by the way her thigh tenses under his. He takes a firmer grasp on her ankle and concentrates on her breathing and her moans, moving carefully inside her. His whole body is tingling with heat, but he's won't give in until she does. She moans again, a little hitch in it, and reaches out to clutch at his hip. Her nails dig into his skin and desire sparks through him at her touch. He groans and her body answers, her muscles tightening. 

"Come for me, Alex," he murmurs. "I want to see your face." She moans in response, her eyes almost closing. He lets go of her ankle and wraps his arm around her leg where it rests against his ribs. He strokes the inside of her thigh, holding her tight as he rocks into her. God, she's so perfect and he's so _close_. He rubs his face against her ankle, trying to ground himself. All he wants to do is lose himself in her arms. His fingers tremble against her clit as she moans again. 

"Please," he says to her, his voice rough. "Please come for me."

"Ah, fuck," she says, and her back arches and her whole body shakes. He holds her tightly, groaning at the way her body spasms around him. He can't help himself thrusting hard into her, but she gazes at him, encouraging him with her lazy, hungry smile, her chest rising and falling as she gasps for breath. Almost as soon as he lets himself go, he's done for, shuddering into her, letting her leg slide off his shoulder as he falls forward because he can't hold himself up anymore. He collapses into bed next to her and she reaches out to stroke his chest. 

"Jesus," she pants. "How do you make that sound like that?"

"Practice makes perfect," he tells her, kissing her cheek. 

"What a beautiful thought," she says. 

"Yes," he says. "We're not quite perfect yet. We'll have to practice quite a bit. Just to be sure. And I'll be sure to let you pick the positions, because I quite liked that one."

"That was incredible," she says, blowing at a curl or two that's got stuck to her face. "I like this new experimental bent we've got."

"It was fantastic before," he agrees, "but it's especially fantastic now."

"Well now," she says, "you humoured me. How can I make your dreams come true, Mister Smith?" She walks her fingers up his chest. "Any particular fantasies I should know about? Anything you've been dying to try and never asked for?"

"You're my fantasy," he says, giving her a lingering kiss. She hums happily as he draws back. 

"Absolutely nothing?" she asks. "Sentimentality aside - and greatly appreciated - you haven't got a single wish?"

"Not really," he tells her, and pauses. "Well. Except."

"Except?" she prompts.

"This is going to sound so incredibly stupid," he says, looking at the ceiling to avoid her eyes. 

"I promise not to laugh," she says in a low sexy voice. "Trust me, Matt."

"I trust you," he says, letting out a long breath. "I just don't know how you're going to take it."

"Now I'm worried," she says, but she sound amused. "Out with it."

"I always rather fancied shagging River Song," he says quickly. "I told you, it's stupid. I don't even think it works that way."

She raises one eyebrow. "Please tell me the last however long hasn't been entirely about River Song."

"No, no, no, no," he says, rolling over to pepper her face with kisses. "See, this is why I didn't want to say. I love _you_ , Alex. It's just impossible not to fancy River, especially since she's you. And not-you." He sighs. "I'm making a mess of everything as usual."

"It's all right," she says. "I think everyone fancies the Doctor. I'm certainly no exception." She pushes his hair off his face and looks into his eyes. "You're not going to want to make love in character all the time, are you? Because I'll tell you right now, we're not doing Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, and I'm not sure about Lady M either."

"Let's just forget it," he mumbles. 

"No," she says. "There's nothing wrong with the occasional bit of roleplay." She looks thoughtful for a moment and then smiles wryly. "Believe me, sweetie, I've heard worse. This has the potential to be quite rewarding."

"You don't have to," he tells her.

"I know," she says. "Believe me, I wouldn't if I didn't want to. It's certainly not any stranger than pretending we've never met and picking each other up at a bar."

"Ooh," he says, a thrill tickling along his spine at the thought. "Ah. Is that a possibility?"

She laughs. "One fantasy at a time, darling. No need to rush. Patience is a virtue."

"So I'm always hearing," he grumbles, pulling her on top of him for a kiss. "Never tried it, myself."

She laughs, lounging comfortably against him, and he can't remember ever being this happy.

\+ + + +

He almost forgets about the whole thing after that, lost in the haze of joy that comes of being in the same country as his beloved for whole weeks on end. They see each other almost every day and it's bliss. He comes back to his flat one night to change for dinner. They're going out later and he'd like to look like an adult for once. He spends half an hour picking out which shirt to wear with which slacks.

"Not bad, old son," he says, looking at himself in the mirror. "Nothing to be done about the face, of course." He gives himself a congratulatory finger gun and shoves his wallet and his phone into his pockets. He's got an hour, but he thought he might go and get flowers. Alex likes flowers. He certainly likes the light in her eyes when he brings her flowers. It's so ridiculously easy to delight her that he hates her exes more than a little. 

In the living room, he stumbles. The lights were on before, he thought, and now they're not, which is strange, but maybe he was being eco-conscious. He opens the door, then pauses and closes the door behind him. He clicks on the light, and there's Alex, sitting backwards in a chair and wearing the shortest, tightest dress he's ever seen her in. He swallows, half-hard already. She looks at him over her shoulder as if she's taking his measure. 

"Alex?" he says. "I thought we were doing dinner later."

"Hello, sweetie," she says in River's voice, every word a promise. "I think you might have me confused with someone."

"Ah," he says, his heart being faster. "River Song, I presume?"

"The one and only," she says with a dangerous smile. "My reputation must precede me."

Everything about this situation is incredibly confusing and incredibly arousing. He couldn't say exactly what makes River not-Alex, and Alex not-River, but the change is complete and impressive. He's tempted to slip into the Doctor, but that would be too much. Besides, the Doctor can sleep with River any time, the bastard. Plain boring gawky Matt Smith only has one chance.

"I've, er, heard a lot about you," he tells her. 

"Oh?" she says. She stands up with slow predatory grace, and he notices she's wearing heels. Alex almost never wears heels out of costume, and definitely none like these. He's fairly certain he'll have a shoe fetish after this. She stalks toward him. The heels click ominously on the floor. "And what have you heard?"

"Oh, mayhem, chaos, this and that," he says, shrugging. "Ah, I've heard you're a dangerous woman."

"For once the rumors got it right," she says. There's a deliciously knowing smirk on her face and he feels the fire kindle in his belly at the look in her eyes. 

"Was there a reason for your visit?" he asks politely, trying to be as English as possible. 

"Just passing by," she says. "It's a bit boring in this century, honestly. You looked like a lad who could use a thrill." She looks him up and down and he has to suppress the urge to clap his hand over his bits. He'd swear her eyes can see right through his clothes. 

"I, er," he begins, and then gives up. He's used to acting when there are lines and stages and directors, but apparently the utter transformation of his lover into his character's lover has him off his game. Or maybe it's the thing she's wearing, because he can't keep his eyes off the swell of her cleavage or the way the dress rides up her thighs to show the lacy tops of her stockings or the long smooth lines of her legs. 

"Eyes up, soldier," she commands, and he quickly looks at her face. She smiles. "Good. I love a decent minion." She tips her chin and glances at the chair. "Go and sit down."

He staggers over, trying not to break anything on the way, but his knees are a bit wobblier than usual. 

"A girl's got to keep her hand in," she says. "As none of my usual assistants are about, you'll have to do." She reaches down, every move graceful, and picks up the remote for his stereo. She keeps her eyes locked on his as she pushes the button, and electronics have never been so sexy. 

Jazz spills out of the speakers, the real thing, raw and moody with the horns sounding absolutely filthy. The raunch of it makes his bones hum. She stalks across the room to him, and the way each foot crosses in front of the other draws attention to her heels and her legs and her hips, and then his eyes keep going up. He can't stop watching her. She moves in time with the music, swaying back and forth. She moves like a Tai Chi video he saw once, all power in the guise of exquisite grace. When she stops, a foot or so in front of him, he reaches for her.

"Ah ah ah," she scolds, still moving her hips. "Hands off, sweetie. Unless you'd rather be unconscious."

"No," he says, clearing his throat. "No, I really prefer consciousness."

She smiles and it's a promise of danger and pleasure. "Then I'm sure you'll follow orders."

"Yes," he says. His mouth is dry and every bit of blood in his body has rushed away from his brain. 

"There's something I need to know," she tells him. "And you're going to tell me."

"I am?" he asks.

"That's generally how it happens," she says. "Sit still."

He sits as still as possible, trying to anchor himself to the chair. She raises one eyebrow in approval. The dress outlines her breasts and hips and he's tempted to sit on his hands just to make sure he doesn't reach out for her. The jazz washes around them and she sways along. He watches her, hypnotized. He couldn't look away if he wanted to. She seems to know it by the look she gives him: amused, pleased, and predatory all at once. The intensity of her gaze makes his cock twitch with yearning. 

She steps closer, leaning down slowly. She's still out of his reach, but he wouldn't touch her now. He'll be a good soldier, do anything she likes, as long as she keeps going. She reaches out with one finger and traces the line of his jaw, under his chin and down his neck, until she gets to the collar of his shirt. With three fingers, she deftly undoes the top button of his shirt. The pop of the button sliding out of the fabric is almost audible. He's never been more glad that he skipped the t-shirt. She leans back and he's hard-pressed not to follow her with his body. 

Slowly, in time with the music, she pulls a red silk scarf out of her cleavage. The material slides through her fingers as she caresses it. She walks around him with those slow, deliberate steps and he swallows and doesn't turn. Suddenly the scarf is around his neck, the silk smooth and hot against his skin. Her hair tickles his ear. 

"Oh dear," she says in that husky voice. "More than you expected? I'd let you go now, but I'm not sure you're ready to answer my question." The silk tightens around his throat. It isn't tight enough that he can't breathe, but it's tight enough that he can feel the pressure. She reaches one hand around in front of him and undoes another three buttons, her nails grazing his chest. He's breathing quickly, impossibly turned on. The tightness around his throat eases. The silk slips around his neck, whisking over his skin before she drops it over his shoulder.

"Hold this for me, that's a good boy," she says, as if he would do anything else. She saunters into his field of view again and stands with her back to him. There's a zip that runs all the way down the back of her dress. He hadn't noticed before.

"A bit warm in here, don't you think?" she asks. "And now that you've got a little relief from the heat, it's only fair that I have as well." She reaches behind herself gracefully, twisting her hair out of the way with one hand and easing down the zip with the other. The whole process is so slow he doesn't know how she can stand it. When the zip is halfway down, she lets her hair tumble back over her shoulders, her left hand pressing the edges of the dress together. In a moment, that's the only thing holding the dress on. She turns to face him. 

"That's better," she says, her right hand holding up the front of her dress, "but this is better yet." The dress falls away all at once and she's standing there in something he can only describe as a negligée, not that he knows much of anything about women's underthings. It's black and silky and it makes him want to run his hands all over her body. 

"Ah," he says inarticulately. 

"Still a bit warm?" she asks. She reaches over the back of the couch, one foot coming off the ground as she bends. Somehow every move she makes still fits in with the music. A clarinet wails as she comes up with a feathery fan and flips it open. "Perhaps this will help." She waves it at him, but the waft of air does nothing to cool him down. She steps closer and closer until the tips of the feathers are brushing his chest. She reaches down and flicks the fabric of his shirt back until more of his skin is exposed. The feathers brush past his face and neck, nearly ticklish and utterly sensual. It's an exquisite sort of torture to have to sit there and not touch her, to just endure it all. 

"I love this song," she says, "don't you?" She drops the fan on his lap, extremely strategically in his opinion, and hums along to the song, swaying her hips. Her hands push back her hair and slide down over her shoulders. Her fingers splay over her collarbones and then stroke a path down over her breasts and down her ribs. He thinks she'll stop there, but she doesn't: she eases her hands over the front of her hips and down between her thighs to trace the lace of her stockings. He groans as her fingers slide over her knees and she stands back up. 

"I can tell that you like it," she says with a glint in her eye. He watches in a trance as she walks back over to undo the last buttons of his shirt, pulling the tails out of his trousers with decisive movements. She flips the sides back as if she's opening a magazine and he does absolutely nothing to stop her. With a smile, she reaches for the fan, unsubtly brushing her hand over the bulge in his trousers, which makes him moan again. She draws the fan down his front from ear to groin, over and over until he's shivering. It's the almost-thereness of it that's driving him mad; he wants so, so much more. 

"Not helping?" she asks and smirks. "Perhaps the silk." She brushes the fan over his belly one last time and drops it on the floor with a purposeful little gesture. He'd forgotten about the scarf draped over his shoulder, but now the touch of the silk is all he can fee. She reaches for it and drags it down his front. "Better?"

"Ngh," is all he can say as the fabric slides over his skin. She draws it up and down his chest, around his neck, over his face. He trembles at her touch. She leaves it covering his eyes as she reaches for the button of his trousers. He'd swear he can feel each little tooth of the zip unhooking, that's how slowly she goes, but then her hands are in his boxer-briefs, easing his cock through the opening. He breathes faster and the silk catches the heat until his face tingles. 

"I'll take that," she says, reaching for the scarf. This time when it slips off his face and down his chest, she doesn't stop at his belly. She wraps the silk around his cock, loosely enough that it still slides when she pulls at it. He groans and she smiles and does it a few more times. He struggles not to lift his hips into her touch. His cock is so hard that the silk whispers easily over it, although there are a few damp spots now. He pants, trying not to make too much noise as the fabric caresses him.

"Too warm again?" She leans over him to retrieve the fan, and his cock brushes against the silk covering her breasts. He's definitely going to have a fetish or two after this. Her hair whispers over his skin as she straightens up, but she doesn't stop there. One step closer, then another, and then she's straddling his lap. The silk of her negligée slides against his cock. He gasps; she smiles; par for the course tonight. 

It's almost a relief to bear the weight of her - at least she's touching him directly, rather than this endless tease. There's still that dangerous look in her eye, though, so he keeps still and doesn't lean forward to kiss her the way he desperately wants to. She opens the fan and waves it over his cock, and it's all almost too much: the way she dances a little to the music, the sleekness of the silk against his most sensitive skin, the waft of the feathers. She leans forward until her breasts graze his chest. 

"Are you ready for my question?" Her voice is throaty.

"Yes!" he almost yelps.

"What would you give me right now?" she breathes, her lips just barely grazing his ear. 

"Anything," he says, and means it with every fiber of his being.

"Wonderful," she says. "Well. I think that wraps things up." She leans back, still with that dangerous grace, and winks at him as she climbs off his lap. He groans as she starts to walk away. He can't even get up to follow her. He's as good as tied to the chair by the overwhelming force of his lust. She flips the fan closed and wraps the scarf around it. Her dress is still on the floor and she bends down to pick it up, offering him a magnificent view of her ass and the lacy knickers she's wearing under her negligée. Her heels click across the floor as she walks toward the door.

"Is that all?" he asks.

She looks over her shoulder with an expression of wicked satisfaction. "You answered my question, sweetie. I got what I wanted. What else did you expect?"

"Ah, nothing." His voice falters. "I, er, hoped...."

She rakes him with her gaze again. "Oh, _dear_. I do see your point." She smirks. "Tragic, really. A limber young thing like you - surely you could handle that yourself. But I suppose I have the time." She lets the dress and the scarf and the fan drop to the floor. As he watches, she slides her palms up the sides of her thighs until the negligée rucks up around her hips. She hooks her thumbs under the lacy knickers and pushes them down. He gulps, his mouth dry with wanting. When the knickers are at her knees, she wriggles her hips and they fall to the floor. She steps out of them and walks over to him with long strides. The seconds seem endless as she climbs back onto his lap, settling her arms around his neck. 

"Was this more what you had in mind?" she purrs.

"Nearly," he manages to say. He's frozen with wanting her. His heart thuds so hard he wonders if she can hear it. 

She sighs theatrically. "Always leave them wanting more." She gazes down at him. "I suppose I could make one exception." 

He nearly whimpers. His cock throbs with longing. His hands are nearly numb from the effort of not touching her. 

"All right," she says. She half-stands to hook one foot into the rungs of the chair. He's desperately thankful that he invested in decent furniture. Her fingers curl around his cock and he groans, loud and frantic. She looks straight into his eyes as she lowers herself onto him, and he almost comes right then. Her cunt is so hot and wet that he thinks he'll melt into her. She moans as she sinks down until her hips are notched against his. 

"That's better," she says. 

" _Fuck_ , yes," he breathes. 

"Hands on," she tells him, and then he's touching her everywhere. He buries his face in her breasts as she rides him, and she moans in pleasure as his tongue finds her nipple through the silk. God, he can't get enough of her. His hands roam everywhere they can reach. He squeezes her breasts and cups her ass. One hand slides under her negligée to find her clit. With both of them still mostly dressed, he can't feel nearly enough of her skin. It's all silk, damp now, another source of delicious friction, and he swears to himself that he's going to buy silk sheets tomorrow. 

She rises and sinks, grinding down onto him until he can't see straight. All he can do is touch her blindly. He strokes her clit in quick little circles. He can tell she's nearly as turned on as he is - the leg that braces her is trembling, and her nipples stand out proud. He leaves her clit for a moment so that he can devote an appropriate amount of attention to her breasts, lifting one in each hand, licking and nuzzling and sucking until she's moaning, her back arching to push her breasts further into his mouth. His spine is dissolving; his muscles are tensing; the world is going hazy around the edges. He's too close and he can't hold out any longer.

"I can't," he says breathlessly. "Sorry, can't."

"By all means," she says. 

He comes with a little shout, his hands slipping from her breasts to her hips so that he can hold her down on him. She takes his head in her hands and finally, _finally_ kisses him, her mouth claiming his. He kisses her back desperately, pouring all of himself into it. One hand still clutches her hip as he starts to come down, but the other finds her clit again. He strokes her, faster circles this time, until she's gasping into his mouth. He wants to see her come undone with pleasure. He thrusts into her as best he can and keeps circling with his fingers as his tongue pushes against hers and god, she must want him as much as he wants her, because she's coming before he even has to pull out of her. Her hands tug at his hair. Her cries aren't words, but they're loud enough to reverberate in his bones. He is absurdly proud.

She slides down to rest on his shoulder for a moment, then lifts her head and gives him a smile. "I suppose I underestimated you. You've been a surprisingly able assistant this evening."

"Thank you," he tells her. 

She shakes her hair out and rolls her shoulders, then pushes up and off his lap. He watches her saunter back across the room. Frankly, he's amazed that her legs work at all. His certainly don't. She steps back into her knickers just as sensually as she stepped out of them and then picks up the dress. 

"Your fan," he reminds her. 

"Keep it," she tells him. "A souvenir, if you like."

"Ah," he says. "Um, yes. To remember. Yes."

"You might want to change if you're having dinner with someone," she says, zipping her dress, which is a bit of an impressive feat. "I doubt they'd have you in this state."

He looks down at the utter mess they've made of his clothes. "Er, thanks."

"Don't mention it," she says, her hand on the door handle. "Ever." And with a glinting smile, she's gone.

He almost falls off the chair.

\+ + + + 

He's more than a little late for dinner, what with showering and dressing again and stopping for the biggest flower arrangement he could find in the corner florist. Alex is already there sitting on the terrace when he stumbles out of his cab. He can see her through the fence. She's wearing flats and a pretty but ordinary summer dress. Her hair is tied back and he admires the line of her throat as he walks up to the table. She beams when she sees him and accepts the flowers with delight. 

"Oh, Matt, they're lovely," she exclaims.

"You deserve all the lovely things, Ms Kingston," he tells her. He looks at her closely, but there's almost nothing of River in her as she sets the vase on the table and picks up her wine. 

"Ah, you're very sweet," she says, taking a sip and examining her flowers. 

"I do my best," he says, pouring himself a glass of wine. He leans forward so that he can talk quietly. "Listen, about earlier."

"Hmm?" she says, raising her eyebrows quizzically. 

"Then again, maybe not in public," he says, because even the thought of it is getting him hard all over again. 

"I'm not at all sure I know what you're talking about, my love," she says, but her eyelid shivers in the ghost of a wink. "Should we order?"

"Yes," he says, sitting back in his chair. "I'm starving." He flips through the menu, gazing over the edge of it at her. It's good that the waiters are slow. He might have missed the momentary expression of worry otherwise. 

"Hey," he says. 

She looks up, her face schooled back into normal-happy. The way her hair is pulled back, he can see how tense she is. Her shoulders are set a little too high. The muscles in her neck are a little too visible. 

"If...earlier...never happens again," he says, "that's fine. I know who I want. And she's on this planet, if you were wondering."

"Only wondering a little bit," she says, but her shoulders look more relaxed already. 

"Something to remember, definitely," he says firmly. "But it's all right if I only see her at work. I'd much rather come home to you."

The smile she gives him is absolutely genuine. "Thank you, dear. That's nice to hear." She tilts her head. "You might see her again. She's a bit unpredictable."

"I'd rather come home to you more than anyone ever," he says, distracted from his original train of thought by the thought of really truly sharing a place with her. They could decorate together, obviously making certain that all the furniture was sturdy. Her daughter could have a room of her own, preferably at the other end of the house or the flat so that they wouldn't have to be entirely silent. He's quite fond of her daughter, of course, and he hopes she's fond of him, but there's no nearly-a-teenager in the world who wants to know that much about her parent's sex life. 

A home, with Alex and her daughter. Even the bit of him that shies away from anything serious is pleased by the idea. He's certain he wouldn't feel any of the restlessness he's endured before, having his lovers live-in. Alex is in L.A. so much that it's always a relief to have her around; Salome's visits are even rarer, but he likes seeing her. He could be a bit of a dad, maybe, if she's all right with that, and all without having to change any nappies. Altogether, it feels like the best idea he's ever had, and the former appeal of his nice little flat pales in comparison.

"We should move in together," he says.

She nearly chokes on her wine. He leans forward, ready to pound on her back, but she holds up a hand to stop him and sputters for a moment.

"All better?" he asks. "Should we get a flat? Should we get a house? I'd probably destroy the garden playing football, but we could put a few flowers in the front."

"This is _definitely_ something to talk about later," she says in a warning voice, but her eyes are soft and there's a light in them that he wants to see much more often. "I thought you were starving."

"There are more important things in life than food," he says airily, and she laughs, and he can't imagine life being better.


End file.
